


Hungry for Your Touch: An Unfortunate Feast

by jazzypizzaz



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: (but not about genitals for once), Alien Culture, Deus Sex Machina, Embarrassment, Except more like Mate or be Obnoxious, Food, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, M/M, Mate or Die, Odo/Quark (past), Starfleet Academy did not prepare Sisko for this, Xenobiology, the Ferengi version of Pon Farr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 01:43:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8231773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzypizzaz/pseuds/jazzypizzaz
Summary: Commander Sisko and Quark go on a trip together to an important diplomatic conference with a new alien species.  It doesn’t go as planned.Inspired by this delightful post about Ferengi mating calls.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you death-star510 for reading this over for me and being consistently excited about this fic with its weird pairing. Shoutout to kithandqin for talking to me about siskuark way back when I started writing this.
> 
>  **Warnings** : Because this involves Quark in a desperate, altered state, by nature this situation has complicated consent issues. I’ve done my best to mitigate this, and both parties explicitly agree to and want to partake in the scenario. Also, fyi, the embedded links route to autoplay Youtube videos with obnoxious sounds, except for one which is a sorta nsfw art (you’ll know which one).

Sisko strides through the corridor of the docking ring towards the Ganges runabout at a steady pace, but pauses when he hears two voices having an impassioned conversation.  He slows down to give time to assess whether it would be best for him to interrupt or give them privacy.

“Please Odo, it can be quick -- just a little of --” there’s a pause which an unseen gesture presumably fills “--and I’ll be good to go.  You can’t leave me hanging here,” says a strained voice, hissing between teeth.  Quark’s voice probably, although it’s hushed enough that Sisko can’t tell for sure.

Odo’s gravelly tones follows, much louder and obviously less concerned about any potential eavesdroppers.  “I told you last time that that was _the last time_.  I don’t want Kira to get the wrong idea.  You know that she’s my first priority.”

“Please, Odo.  I’ll-- whatever you want, please, I need to be able to concentrate today.  You can have free holosuite time… Kira can drink free for a night.  Okay two nights!  I’ll arrange for you two to have a nice vacation on Risa, for 25% off my normal commission.  Name your price, please!”  Quark’s voice raises in pitch and volume -- Sisko can tell it’s definitely Quark’s now -- becoming more desperate and hysterical with each plea.  

“When will you ever learn that you can’t buy me off, Quark.  Humanoid romantic relations require a level of devotion your profit-addled brain can’t understand, and I have to see this through.  You’re on your own.  Frankly you should be grateful I’ve indulged you this long.”

“Odo, please.  No one has to know,” Quark says, his voice dropping low again.  

Sisko resumes his regular pace and turns the corner.  “No one has to know, what?”  Quark cringes slightly, but Odo looks unconcerned.  “Is there a problem here, gentlemen?  Constable?”

Odo snorts and gestures dismissively.  “No problem on my end, he’s all yours.  I insist.”

“Anything I need to know?”  Sisko inquires, and Odo rolls his eyes.

“No.  This is a personal and entirely unimportant conversation.  Best of luck at the conference.  Although, I don’t envy you, sharing a ship cabin with this one.”  Odo inclines his head towards Quark, then gives Sisko a professional nod and stalks off.  

Quark watches him go, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his hands clasping and unclasping nervously.

Sisko quirks an eyebrow.  “Are you ready to leave, or are there more pressing matters on your mind?” he says dryly.

Quark jumps a bit and whips his head back, wide-eyed as if he somehow forgot Sisko was there.  He regains himself though, and after a moment of him scanning Sisko up and down, a familiar pointy-toothed leer cracks his countenance.  

“I’m ready for anything you’d like, Captain, lead the way.”

\-----------

Whatever had transpired between his security chief and Quark, Sisko would normally avoid making it his business as much as he could.  Dax may love gossip as a hobby, that old rascal, but while Sisko liked to make connections with his crew when he could, he didn’t have the energy or desire to butt in on personal drama.  

Unless it became a professional problem, of course.  

The conference Sisko and Quark are heading to needs to go smoothly, for the good of the Federation and further interactions with the Dominion.  The Jrengal recently made first contact with the Enterprise, upon which Captain Picard discovered their people had relocated from the Gamma Quadrant not more than a generation ago.  Sisko’s mission, the upcoming meeting at Starbase 47, is to glean as much information about the Dominion from the cagey Jrengal as they could.  Quark, for his part, had suggested that the current reticence of the Jrengal was due to their elaborate social rituals involving food and drink service.  Apparently, Quark had encountered them before, as a cook on a Ferengi cargo ship, and with Rom’s assistance finagled a replicator with the necessary programming for Jrengal foods.

What truth there was in this claim was anyone’s guess, but the possibility that Quark was right outweighed the risk of his involvement.  In any case, Sisko -- prophets help him, if they could -- needed his caterer in top form, and the entire trip so far had not set this worry at ease.  Whatever had happened in the corridor before departing seemed to have rattled Quark into being more obnoxious than ever.

So far, Quark had spent the trip pacing incessantly around the runabout, breathing down Sisko’s neck, pressing random buttons, complaining about everything from Sisko’s piloting to the quality of the ship air, and generally being a nuisance.

Sisko is in the middle of recounting the greatest of Buck Bokai’s home runs to pass the time -- as well as possibly distract his unfortunate shipmate -- when Quark interrupts abruptly with a high-pitched [ screeching ](https://youtu.be/tbr-WaBNyd8?t=1).

“What?  What’s wrong?!” Sisko shouts over him, alarmed.  

Quark cuts off abruptly, a hint of embarrassment on his face, then continues, first covering one ear then the other.  “Eeeeee, eee, eeeeiyyyy… Has this ship always had that noise or is something wrong?  Wait no, it shifted again.  Now it’s more like ‘yyyyyyyy’--”

“Quark, _please_ ,” Sisko says, rubbing his temples.  “I’ll take a crying fussy infant over that racket any day.  Don’t worry about it, O’Brien checked her out himself before we left.”

“It’s not my fault we got stuck on this flimsy piece of tin; couldn’t the Federation have provided you with a real ship to take you there?”

“It’s a relatively short trip, and they have better use of resources than--”

“What _I_ think is that they don’t properly value your services.  With your position as the key to the Gamma Quadrant, I would be happy to negotiate you better benefits from Admiral Whats-his-face, for a small fee of course--”  He cuts off when his stomach makes a loud grumbling noise.

“Quark, we’ve been stuck together on this ‘piece of tin’ all day, and we still have several hours until we’re at the the starbase.  The welcoming dinner isn’t until after that.  Now, trust me as a man who grew up in a restaurant, we’d both feel better if you would eat a meal.  I know for a fact the ship’s replicator makes a half-decent shrimp scampi--”

“I already told you-- I don’t WANT any of your gross human food!” Quark shrieks loudly, waving his arms as he continues pacing.  He glances at Sisko’s shocked expression and takes a deep breath before grumbling, more quietly, “I don’t want to eat replicated creatures, all dead, without enough legs or slime or wriggling or anything real.  Now, if you had programmed in a few Ferengi dishes, instead of your typical hu-mon arrogance--”

“Shrimps _are_ bugs of the sea.  It might surprise you!”  Sisko grins.  “Besides, I know you eat Bajoran food all the time.  But you could have brought your own tube grubs along if it was going to be a problem.”

“I’m not hungry!” Quark squawks and right on cue his stomach grumbles aloud again.  He rubs it and gives Sisko a pained expression, then waves his hand dismissively.  “The point is you Federation types are so culturally enlightened, picking and choosing which foods or customs are worthy of your attention and ignoring those that aren’t convenient or palatable.  I’m accompanying you to provide a valuable service, for a conference that in your words is _essential for the security of the wormhole_ ,” Quark says, layering on put-upon gravitas and pacing around the bridge, rambling at rapid speed, “So either find someone else to cater at the event or learn to deal with my criticism.”

Sisko rubs his hand over his face.  “ _You_ begged to come with _me_ , for days.  Don’t test my patience.  I’ll turn this ship around right now.”

“Begged you, hah!  I presented you with convincing evidence on how the rigorous eating rituals and social habits of the Jrengal could easily be misinterpreted by someone less versed in the intergalactic food service industry than me.  Pour the bobba juice several minutes too early, put the lechtak soup in the wrong place setting, and your whole diplomatic inquiry will fall flat.  It could even incite a war!  But with my expertise on your side--”

“With you, instead I’ll offend the ambassadors by my late arrival when I take a detour to drop you off on the nearest M-class planet.  Maybe I’ll even find one with a healthy insect population.”

“You wouldn’t!” Quark places a hand over his heart in fake offense, squeaking a bit with unintentional anxiety.  “A man of such integrity as you?  A Starfleet officer sworn to protect innocent civilians--”  He moves to squeeze Sisko’s shoulder in dramatic concern.

“No one would claim _you_ are innocent,” Sisko says, glancing down in bewilderment at where Quark is now absent-mindedly [ kneading ](https://youtu.be/d3uMtJidbAA?t=6) his shoulder.  “All I’m asking is that we enjoy a nice pleasant conversation to pass the time--”

“About a boring hu-mon sport?  Pass.”  Quark’s hands moves down to stroke Sisko’s chest.  Sisko quirks an eyebrow, but doesn’t immediately react.

“Well I’m open to other topics or activities--”  Sisko lounges back in his chair, shifting nonchalantly away from Quark’s hand.  Quark jerks his arms back into a half-cringe, as if just realizing what it had been up to.  He glances at Sisko nervously, but Sisko keeps his expression impassive.

Quark purses his lips in perplexion, then grins and drapes himself across the console in front of Sisko, waggling his browridge.  His compact frame quivers slightly, either in anticipation or as if he simply can’t keep still even for a moment.  “If you’d like to talk about baseball in peace, I do know another way to keep my mouth occupied than with your gross hu-mon scrimfs--”

“Shrimp.”

“Whatever.”  Quark kneels down in front of Sisko, leering with that iconic grin he gives to every fe-male that walks within ten feet of him, and places a hand on each of Sisko’s knees.  Sisko raises both his eyebrows, sitting back in the chair, his face still deadpan, waiting.  

Quark continues, “There’s a Ferengi saying-- always _suck_ up to the boss!” popping his mouth lewdly on the word _suck_ , leaving no room for misinterpretation.  Despite his predatory lean into Sisko’s space, Quark’s shoulders are tense, his hands flexing and unflexing, as if ready to retreat at a moment’s notice.

Sisko leans forward in the chair so that his face is inches from Quark’s ear.  Quark sucks in a breath and holds it.  “I’m not your boss,” Sisko says simply, then stands up, breaking out into an easy-going grin.  “If I were, you’d probably feel more obligated to talk about baseball with me.”  

He drops the grin abruptly, fixing a harsh stare on a shaky Quark, who is still kneeling on the ground.  “Now, either you are going to give an adequate explanation for this behavior, or you’re going to find a way to relax,” Sisko says, each word spit out with sharp enunciation.

Quark shuffles over to Sisko and bats his eyes up at him.  “You’re welcome to help me relax, just say the word, and I’m yours,” he drawls, attempting a lascivious tone, but his voice cracks with a squeak toward the end.

Sisko shakes Quark’s hands off his legs, and Quark droops back on his heels.  “That doesn’t even make sense.  And as much of a lecherous flirt as you are, I’ve never known it to interfere with your business goals.  You are testing my patience, and I can’t have you at this meeting if you can’t handle yourself.”

“If _I_  can’t --?” Quark says with an exaggerated affectation, contorting his face into a look of bafflement.  “I think _you_ are too tense; if all it takes is sharing a cabin with me to wind you up, who knows what might happen with the Jrengal.  Therefore--” Quark licks his lips, confidence back now that he’s back in his comfort zone, winding up a sales pitch. “--it would do a lot of good for you to loosen up and get rid of some of that repressed sexual energy.  Don’t deny you’ve been lonely; I notice how never take advantage of my holosuite programs, and you haven’t pursued any fe-males since--”  

“Don’t you dare mention Jennifer,” Sisko growls in warning.  “And my personal life is none of your business.”

“I was _going_ to say that one lady that turned out to be a ghost or whatever.  Anyway, I have no choice but to _make_ your personal life my business.  And what a pleasure that could be.”  Quark smiles flirtatiously, peering up at Sisko expectantly.

Sisko stares down at Quark for a long moment, considering the limits of professional conduct.  It really has been a long time, and he hasn’t been with a man for well over a decade, not since Curzon.  But Quark?  Sisko shakes his head to rid himself of this absurd train of thought, then sits back down in the chair, movements slow and languid.  An important mission is no time to get distracted, even if they do have a few tedious hours left to kill, and even if wiping that smarmy smirk off Quark’s face might be worth it.  

“I can relax just fine, and I’d like to see you do the same.  Now, even if you’re skeptical of shrimp, I find it hard to believe you wouldn’t love my dad’s signature etouffee.  He starts with a light roux--”

While Sisko talks, his voice a low, comforting drone, Quark stays seated on the ground, hands clenched, drawing in deep breaths.  Eventually the tension drains out of his shoulders, and when Sisko’s attempts to draw him into conversation go no where, Quark again begins pacing and bouncing around the cabin with restless energy, this time keeping a careful distance from Sisko.

Whatever’s wrong with Quark, Sisko hopes he can keep himself under control long enough to not screw up their hopes of potential intel.

\----------

The beginning of the conference goes smoothly, although much of that time is spent indulging the Jrengal delegates in their dinner ritual.

While humanoid, the Jrengal have a beard-like thachet of tentacles on the lower halves of their faces.  Each barbel is about a half inch in diameter and ranges in length from inches to feet, coated with the same pearly blue-grey skin as the rest of them.  Each appears to serve a different purpose.  

The Jrengal dip their longer flesh whiskers to drink from the various bowls of rainbow liquids Quark places in front of them, his face screwed up in concentration as he mutters under his breath -- _lechtak soup placed at the two o’clock position, hrinki juice served before the_ _bobba_.  (Quark’s not the cheerful, ingratiating host Sisko is familiar with, instead sullen and silent, but he performs the job without issue, so far.)  Sisko and Picard, along with Admiral Patel from the Starbase and several other Federation delegates, follow which bowls the Jrengal drink from first, and they suck up the liquids through long twisty straws in careful mimicry.

The Jrengals’ shorter whiskers start off the evening stretched out to their full lengths, waving in sharp twitches, as if smelling or otherwise sensing all they could about the alien creatures that called them to this conference.  The movements are alert and somewhat frantic, as if the Jrengal are not completely comfortable, and Sisko idly hopes that one of those senses isn’t telepathy.

Curzon, the ever charming diplomat, taught him how to accept cultures on their own terms, and helped shift his perspective more than any Academy training on how to find the common ground with anyone no matter how strange.  (Of course, this common ground for Curzon was usually booze or flirting, but, still.)  Sisko has to admit the straws are a fun novelty, although it would be tough to slurp even the thinnest gumbo up through them.  

The other Federation delegates however, despite their friendly smiles, look awkward at best.  Admiral Patel grimaces every time she picks up the straw for a new dish, while Picard looks the most uncomfortable -- his lips pursed around the straw with subtle distaste, a line of tension across his bald forehead, his pleasant smile strained between sips.

“My father owns a restaurant, back on our home planet, so it’s nice to meet people who are as serious about food as he is,” Sisko says, trying some friendly small talk to break the ice.

“The [dinner meal]”-- the universal translator supplies this as a crude approximation for a more specific Jrengal word--”is a sacred event, and those who partake together are bound in its ritual.”

After the first three courses, however, the Jrengal delegates visibly relax, speaking more openly.  Their short tentacles undulate with slow leisure, as the delegates expound on the appropriate pungency of the hrinki juice and pleasant goupy texture of the lechtak soup.  

Picard and Sisko share a glance, and transition from trading small talk stories about their own food traditions with their guests, into more in depth inquiries about Jrengal society at large.  

“Despite the importance my family placed on ancient traditions, preserving the fine art of wine-making as we discussed, I still always longed for adventure, and so here I am, with Starfleet.  Since you’ve relocated, do you contend with any of that same push and pull between old and new?” Picard says.

Quark, meanwhile, only gets more harried and tense, despite the success of his catering.  While Picard deftly guides the conversation (from the difficulty in the hrinki fruit farming practices on the Jrengal’s current Alpha Quadrant planet, to asking why they left their Gamma Quadrant home if it had optimal environmental conditions for their established techniques), Sisko studies his uncharacteristically quiet caterer.  Normally, this would be about the time Quark would chime in with a sales pitch on marketing hrinki juice to other planets, maybe outsourcing its growth to planets with better weather, but Quark hasn’t said a word the whole time.  

Sisko’s concerns are further heightened when Quark rams his cart, laden with courses four and five, into Picard’s chair, and he lets out a sharp hiss.  

“Your chair is too far away from the table!  Have some respect.  Here I am slaving away pouring your food with careful expertise, and you can’t be bothered to clear a decent pathway for my cart.  No regard for the caterer, as usual,” Quark bitches.

Everyone besides Sisko seated around the conference table whips their heads around to stare at Quark, affronted -- as if they forgot he was there.  Picard’s eyebrows threaten to climb off his face, his forehead wrinkled into a ruffled displeasure.  He opens his mouth to speak, but a Jrengal cuts him off.

“Those who provide the [sacred liquid of life]”--again, a universal translator approximation-- “are highly revered in our society.  We honor your gift,” the Jrengal sings out, tentacles undulating in a choreographed wave.

Picard, relieved, clears his throat.  “Erhm.  Yes, thank you, um… Mister?”

“Quark,” Quark says, his teeth clenched. “So nice to meet a culture with a proper appreciation for my service.”

Sisko remains motionless, idly stroking his chin.   He watches Quark carefully while the conversation at the table shifts back away from the incident.  Sisko takes note of how the bowls shake in Quark’s hands as he transfers them to the table, how his knuckles whiten when he clenches the handle of the cart.  How he jitters and tenses when he accidentally brushes against Admiral Patel’s arm while serving her.

Finally they’ve reached the last course, and Quark carts around a giant pot full of a spicy purple soup.  By now, Quark is breathing loudly through his nose, jaw clenched, as he carefully aerates the liquid with the ladle before spooning it into the bowls.

Something isn’t right, but when Picard asks Sisko a pointed question about the wormhole, he has to refocus from keeping an eye on Quark’s peculiarities to responding to the Jrengal patiently waiting for his answer.  

“Yes, the wormhole was considered a myth, before my science officer and I discovered it several years ago.  Recently, it’s become a contested entry point to worlds beyond, not all of which appear to be as friendly as you.  If your people really did somehow travel through it undetected decades ago, surely you must have heard of the D--”

“EEEEEEEEE,” Quark lets out an abrupt loud screech, flailing as he jumps away from a waving tentacle that appears to have brushed against his ear.  He continues screeching, his eyes wild, and accidentally crashes into the cart.   The large pot wobbles, then falls over, drenching the front of Quark’s jacket ensemble.

“The [food priest] has spilled the limbta!  He has spilled the limbta!” The Jrengal keep talking, the following part untranslatable, but their tone is clear. They all stand up at once, chanting, and their fleshy whiskers stand straight out from their faces, twisting and twitching in a frightening agitated display.  

Quark scrambles over to cower in a corner, his hands clamped over his mouth, but isn’t able to contain the ear-splitting noises still spilling out of him. A few other delegates rush over to right the pot, wiping up the spilled soup, while Picard tries to shout calming words to the Jrengal.  Admiral Patel gives a sharp look to Sisko, lips moving although Sisko can’t hear over the racket: _do something about your Ferengi_.

Just once, Sisko would like his first contact with an alien species not to go haywire.

\----------

Sisko yanks the still screeching Quark by the elbow, steering him out of the dining hall and into the nearest unoccupied room, which turns out to be an ambassador’s office.  Sisko closes the door behind them, then pins the vibrating noisy Quark against the wall, his fingers digging into his upper arms.

“I can’t figure it out,” Sisko shouts over Quark, each word punctuated with a biting staccato.  “What the hell is going on with you?”

In Sisko’s grip, the terse words washing over him, Quark finally grows silent, and his twitching slows.  Sisko releases him, and Quark droops against the wall, drained without Sisko to hold him up.  Quark licks his lips, quietly appraising him.

“This meeting should be as important to your profit margins as to the Federation’s diplomacy goals, and yet you are making a fool of us all.  Is there an end game here I am not privy to or--”

“The only end game I’m after is-- Eeeeeeee!” Another high-pitched screech erupts from Quark’s mouth, and he claps his hands over it, dampening the sound slightly, his eyes wild.  His chest starts to heave again, and Sisko notes that his skin is a dull ochre rather than its usual burnt orange luster.

“Are you... okay?” Sisko says tentatively, pausing in his reprimand.  “You’re sweating,” he notes, perturbed.  “ _And_ shivering.”

“I’m fine-- EEEeeeee!”  Quark breaks out bawling, sinking to his knees with his hands in Ferengi begging pose in front of him.  “I’m not fine!!! I’m not fine at all!” he screams in between sobs and screeching. “Help me, pleeeeeease!”

“Shhh,” Sisko hisses, roughly tugging Quark to his feet.  “Talk to me.”

With the brusque treatment and dominating tone, Quark immediately falls silent again, growing limp in Sisko’s hands.  Sisko tilts his head inquiringly, glancing from Quark’s now somewhat relaxed body to his now silent gaping mouth.

“I’m calling the starbase medical officer.  Captain Sisko to--” Sisko lets go of Quark to tap his communicator badge, and Quark stumbles backward before hissing and ripping Sisko’s badge out from under his hand.  

“I don’t need some hu-mon so-called doctor not charging any money just to click his tongue at me and -- Eeee!”

“She’s Denobulan actually, but that’s besides the point.  Quark, if you’re having a medical issue, we can address that, otherwise I’m locking you in the runabout so Captain Picard and I can try to resurrect anything positive in our relationship with the Jrengal we managed to establish.”

“It’s-- it’s medical, I suppose,” Quark heaves, not meeting Sisko’s eyes.

“Alright then,” Sisko says, patient now that this might be a concrete problem they can fix.  He pauses, but Quark doesn’t elaborate. “Tell me how we can address whatever issue you’re having, or I’m calling the medical officer whether you want me to or not.”  Sisko wonders how Picard is smoothing over the situation in the conference room.  

“I’ve been _trying_ , but you keep shutting down all my advances,” Quark whines. “You’re the one making everything difficult.”

“Your… advances.”

“Just bend me over a desk and fuck me already.  I tried to be subtle, but you’ve left me no choice.  [ Eeee ](https://youtu.be/1LTxZ2aNytc?t=30)!”  Quark sucks in a sharp breath to stop the shrieking, then sighs heavily.  “All it used to take for Odo was a few well-timed insults--”  

At the mention of Odo, Quark clamps his mouth shut, as if realizing he’s revealed too much.

Sisko always assumed there was something more between the two of them than the archenemies front they displayed, but he had suspected it was something closer to a begrudging friendship.

“So… you are screeching and sweating and being generally obnoxious because… you’re aroused?”  Sisko manages to say, his mouth warping in distaste over the words.  Starfleet Academy did _not_ prepare him for situations like this.  “This is completely inappropriate and--”

“You’re familiar with Vulcan _pon farr_ I assume?   _Zloo-flix_ is like that… but less ritual and death--” Quark’s explanation is cut off by a piercing shriek erupting from his mouth.  “Well, usually.”

“Less death, you said?” Sisko mutters under his breath.

“As you’re no doubt aware, some find the symptoms quite irritating.  It doesn’t lead to making new friends among non-Ferengi, let’s leave it at that.”  Quark puts on his best woe-is-me innocent victim expression, but still can’t quite make eye contact.  “It won’t kill me, but I can’t eat, I can’t think straight, I haven’t slept in days, and if you don’t do something I won’t be able to stop screeching, and I’ll probably injure my hearing permanently, and it’ll be all your fault.  So let that weigh on your Federation conscience.”

“Then I can call Dr. Zlovix--”

“Please no doctors.  This is very private for Ferengi.  I don’t know anyone here, please.”  He takes a shaky breath and steels himself to look at Sisko.  “I trust you.”

“Even with my silly hu-mon Federation values?” Sisko says, mimicking Quark’s mispronunciation.

Quark says nothing, his face open as he looks at Sisko, not rising to the bait, and this is how Sisko knows the situation is serious.  Quark is being entirely sincere.  

“If Garak needed help molting or an Andorian needed their antennas scratched you wouldn’t have a problem,” Quark grumbles softly.

“Garak wouldn’t be caught dead shedding in public.”  Sisko pauses, grimacing.  “Alright, alright.  Is there a different way I could… help you then?”

Quark immediately lights up, his pleading expression evaporating.  “Like I told you, bend me over the desk, and--”

“I can’t have sex with you just to stop you from screeching.  I can’t do that, it’s-- it’s-- you’re in an altered state.”

“Sure, I’d prefer it to not just be a pity fuck or whatever, but also I don’t subscribe to your hu-mon ethics.  I’m Ferengi, and I have a Ferengi problem, and I’m telling you before the next wave of _zloo-flix_ happens that I _want_ you to fuck me.”  Quark cuts himself off, panting with short shallow breaths as if he had just ran a couple kilometers, and his wan skin is moist with perspiration.  Whatever this _zloo-flix_ is, it’s rolling over Quark more violently than in the conference room or the runabout.  

Quark starts vibrating again.  He deliberately tries to contain himself to little effect, arms wrapped around his torso, then says, his voice small between outbursts, “Maybe-- EEEEEE-- if you... could you at least do what you were doing earlier?  Physical pressure might EEEEEEEE-- help, at least for now?”

Sisko stares at him, hesitates only a moment (a moment filled with another ear-piercing shriek), then takes off his dress uniform jacket and lays it on the desk.  “Take off your clothes.”

“Wh-- what?”  Quark yelps.

“Your jacket and shirt.  They’re covered in soup.”

“Oh-- oh right.  Ok.  Umm--”  Quark stutters.  He glances towards the closed door and shifts on his feet.  Several more shrieks erupt through his clenched jaw, however, so he takes a deep breath and unpeels his top layers off his shaking body.  His chest is damp from perspiration, droplets condensing between the wrinkly bits in the center of his chest.  “There, happy?  Now are you going to--”

In one fluid motion Sisko presses Quark up against the wall, firm arms on either side of Quark, their bodies flush.  “Is this… is this sufficient?” Sisko says stiffly.

Quark lets out a shaky breath, hot on Sisko’s cheek.  He continues to vibrate and twitch, body still thrumming with restless energy, but his breathing slows.  “This is good.”

“What about Nog?  I don’t remember hearing the screeching of other Ferengi on the Promenade; that would have been hard to miss.”  Sisko presses his arms in firmly, squeezing tighter, and the twitching slows to a quiver.

“Rom has Leeta, and Nog--” Quark tilts his head back to shoot a pointed look at Sisko.  Sisko notes that his complexion is still that dull ochre-- too drained and sickly.  “--has Jake.”

“Jake.. my son Jake?  You don’t mean--”

“What, you don’t like the idea of your son dating another male?  Unlike Ferengi, I thought hu-mon culture had evolved to accept the range of sexual diversity or some other nonsense--”  Quark wriggles slightly, as if to see if he could escape, but Sisko doesn’t budge, his latent strength outmatching the Ferengi without trying, and Quark relaxes further.

“Of course not--”  Sisko interrupts indignantly.  The strangeness of the situation-- talking about his son’s dating life while pinning Quark of all people to the wall, his breath hot on Sisko’s cheek-- leaves him off balance.

“So you’ve so graciously allowed your son to be best friends with such a horrid creature as my nephew, but you’d balk at the thought of him dating a Ferengi--”  Quark says, in between rapid breaths.  With Quark flush against him, Sisko feels something against his leg.  Perhaps Quark is wearing a belt buckle or some accessory he didn’t notice before.

“Now listen, Quark, he would have told me--” Sisko insists, much more worried at the implication that Jake would think that Sisko wouldn’t approve-- or worse that he’d be too embarrassed to tell his dad-- than that his son’s romantic partner is non-human.  Although… did he really have to pick _Nog_?

Small splotches of dark orange blossom in Quark’s wan cheeks, like drops of paint, and his eyes are dilated now to where they are mostly pupil.  

“And you hu-mons think you’re so enlightened.”  Quark clicks his tongue at Sisko disapprovingly, voice high and reedy, then pauses.  “Don’t get your knickers in a bunch, there’s nothing going on with them, or at least nothing on Jake’s end.  Knowing my nephew, and the way he follows Jake around, however, it’s not for lack of wishing.  Don’t worry, Nog is young, so all he requires is general attention and the occasional hug from his target mate to keep the _zloo-mot_ from becoming _zloo-flix_.”

Quark tries to shift his lower body away from Sisko slightly, swallowing with nerves, but there’s no room for movement, so he ends up rubbing against Sisko’s leg.  Well.  It’s not a belt buckle.  A flash of heat travels through Sisko to settle in his own groin against rational judgement.

“Is Odo your… target mate?”  Sisko says, distracted by Quark’s compact body beneath him and his own increasing heart rate, but immediately regrets asking.  He already knows more about station residents’ personal life than he wants to, mostly due to Dax’s gossiping, and he didn’t mean to bring up what might be a sensitive topic with Quark.

Quark’s face falls, and he shrugs beneath Sisko’s embrace.  “None of the fe-males I’ve pursued have stuck around, but I can count on Odo... usually.  I require… a firmer hand than Nog does, let’s leave it at that.”  His voice is uncharacteristically quiet.

“Will what we’re doing now be sufficient to hold you over for the rest of this mission, or will you be needing…. more?”  Sisko says, his voice deepening to a low rumble despite himself.  Quark stares into his eyes, and both are now firmly aware that other knows that the small knob pressing up against Sisko’s leg is definitely, undoubtedly, _not_ a belt buckle.

“If you’re buying, I’m selling.”  Quark curls his mouth into a leer, tongue flitting over his pointed teeth, and he shimmies his hand between them to grasp towards Sisko’s pants, rubbing crudely at the captain’s crotch.

“This isn’t a business deal.  I’m not _buying_ anything,” Sisko says, voice neutral.  Perhaps this is Ferengi dirty talk-- they do phrase everything as transactions, but the problem is often they also _think_ of everything as a transaction.  That Quark might consider _sex_ a transactional experience is disturbing.

“Of-- of course not,” Quark stammers.  “This will be mutually enjoyable, an exchange of pleasure and all that.  You know what I mean.”

In a flash, Sisko wraps his hands firmly around Quark’s wrists and twists his arms up to pin Quark’s hands against the wall above him.  Quark’s skin flushes to a bright tangerine, and Sisko can feel his pulse pounding in the wrists he’s holding.

“I’m afraid I don’t.  Why don’t you spell it out for me,” Sisko says, his voice low and commanding.

“That… that’s a start,” Quark squeaks.

Then Quark lunges upward, mouth open and sloppy on Sisko’s lips.  

Sisko stiffens, sucking a sharp breath through his nostrils.  Of all the dilemmas and considerations he studied in his Cross Cultural Command course at the Academy, this is a situation he was not prepared for -- an aroused Ferengi quivering against him, kissing him desperately as if his lips contain the antidote, as if Sisko hadn’t been openly aggravated with his peevish antics this whole trip, and this all happening while an important diplomatic convention is on recess down the hall.  

Sisko lets Quark’s mouth suck against his, kissing back with only small, firm movements meant to prevent Quark’s desperate probing tongue from getting in too deep too fast.  His reticent control seems to only arouse Quark further, moaning under his breath and writhing against Sisko.

He ought to be dragging Quark to the doctor, but there’s no guarantee they’d be able to treat him anyway, with the lack of Federation access to (or interest in) medical knowledge about Ferengi.  Besides, Quark despite his general distress was in a clear enough state of mind to reject any medical treatment outright.  He has always made his advances on Sisko very clear, flirting any chance he’s gotten since Sisko arrived on the station.  Sisko had chalked that up to typical Ferengi sycophantic flattery -- “always suck up to the boss” indeed -- but the way Quark constantly pushed his buttons, deliberately riling him up while leaning into his personal space, casual touches on the arm or hand, belied further interests than typical toadyism.

Sisko deepens the kiss, taking control of the movements, and Quark’s mouth is pliant beneath his own.  A low warbling from the back of Quark’s throat reverberates through them.  Despite himself, Sisko can feel the heat between them, his own pants growing tight as blood rushes through his veins.

Still, before this goes any further, it wouldn’t hurt to be absolutely sure what Quark is expecting from their current encounter.

Sisko pulls away, mouth open with an inquiry on the tip of his tongue, but Quark interrupts, speaking quickly, panic at the edges of his panting voice.  “Captain it's not like you to get dry lobes, or I guess cold feet as hu-mons say... Maybe to entice you to keep going, I can sweeten the pot a little.  It’ll be just between us, I can be discreet, for a reward--”

Sisko pins Quark’s arm behind his back and pushes him face-down onto the desk.  Quark lets out a high pitched whine, that sounds unequivocally more like pleasure than distress.

Sisko leans over Quark so that he’s speaking directly into his ear, low and terse, putting pressure on Quark's pinned arm.  “You want me to have sex with you, and I am, at this moment, amenable to that.”  Quark lets out a low moan in assent.  “However, if back on the station I get so much as a whiff of you twisting this encounter to curry favor from me, or to get away with some illicit scheme or to attempt to use this as blackmail -- which won’t work anyway, I stand by my decisions -- you will rue the day you decided to live on Deep Space Nine.  Is that absolutely clear?”

“Clear as a wiffling rain,” Quark squeaks.   

“I’m not done.  This is not Ferenginar, and I play by Federation rules.  I am not your boss, and you are not my employee ‘sucking up’ to me.  This is primarily for your benefit, so you have to be honest with me about what you need and what you like.”

Quark arches his back to rub up against Sisko, but Sisko squeezes his arm and Quark stills.  Sisko is half-hard, blood pounding through him, but he doesn’t have any intention of indulging that here, not with the murky ethics involved.

“Good, good,” Quark pants.  “I’m very grateful for your oh-so-generous assistance, despite those delicate hu-mon sensibilities of yours, so please enjoy yourself.  A firm hand, toss me around, use-- use me however you’d like,” he stammers and gulps.

Sisko stays still a moment longer, holding Quark in place, considering this troublesome statement combined with the earlier insinuations.  Quark may mean this offer sincerely, but desperation might lead him to promise more than he would actually enjoy, to entice continued assistance.

Well, Sisko has no intention of taking advantage of Quark in this state, any more than he has to in order to help with the emergency.

As Sisko considers his next move, Quark shifts beneath Sisko’s grip, impatient.  “Is this some sort of mind game, to keep me guessing what you’ll do next?  I was with a Cardassian woman once who liked that sort of thing, I don’t _mind_ really, but I didn’t think it’d be your style--”  

Quark babbles, as if not entirely paying attention to what he’s saying but feeling the need to say something.   As he talks, his voice grows higher pitched, threatening to break out into shrieking again, so Sisko, convinced of the urgency of the situation, takes action.

He reaches to gently rub along the back of Quark’s lobe with his free arm, and Quark gasps, cutting off his prattle mid-sentence.

Sisko removes his other hand from pinning Quark’s arm behind his back, but Quark whimpers -- “no please, keep it there” -- so Sisko puts it back, keeping Quark firmly in place against the desk.

With the hand on the lobe, he grips firmly, kneading, then scrapes along the ridges with his nails.  Quark’s breath deepens as he rocks against the desk, panting.  Sisko caresses the delicate skin lightly, tracing the valleys between the ridges, until Quark is whimpering high needy whines, gasping for more.

Eager to give him more, Sisko again begins to move his other hand from holding Quark’s wrist in place, but Quark whimpers again.  “Don’t let me go.”

Sisko twist the pinned arm up over Quark’s head on the desk, then does the same with the other.  “Stay there.”  He swats Quark on the butt with a light smack, and Quark yelps.  He casts his eyes around the room until he notices a sash looped between layers of Quark’s discarded clothes.  

“Would you like if I tied your wrists together with this?” Sisko asks, dangling the sash where Quark can see it.

“ _Please_.”

Sisko binds his wrists together, careful to tie the knots with the appropriate tension.  Quark’s skin is hot to the touch, now a flush bright color instead of the sickly ochre, smooth and hairless as Sisko runs his hands over Quark’s small lumpy frame.  Quark moans underneath his touch.  This is not a situation Sisko thought he’d find himself in upon leaving the station early this morning, but after all of Quark’s stubborn obnoxiousness, he does find it satisfying to have him in this position -- bound and bent over the desk, undone at Sisko’s touch, desperate for whatever Sisko decides to do with him.

“Fuck me already, please, I’m ready,” Quark whines, his legs quaking from the position bent over the desk.

Sisko reaches one arm around under Quark’s stomach as support.  He’s hard against Quark’s back, but he focuses on the task at hand, slipping his other hand into Quark’s pants.  

Quark whimpers as Sisko’s fingers meet… [ ribbon ](http://kithandqin.tumblr.com/post/147074756251/so-the-thing-i-talked-about-before-with-ferengi)?  Which appears to be swaddling Quark’s dick in an intricate weave.  Sisko fumbles around to unravel it, but Quark squeaks out, “No, just no, leave it,” then moans loud and long when Sisko doesn’t hesitate to wrap his hand around him with a firm grip.

It doesn’t take long after that-- Sisko holding Quark against him and stroking him off, Quark thrusting into Sisko’s hand and making a series of obnoxious yowling sounds like a cat drenched in water, until finally Quark finds the release that has been building up all day.  He tenses and jerks, then cries noisily as warm wetness spills over onto Sisko’s hand.

Sisko, alarmed, holds him against his chest for a moment, Quark’s body limp in his arms, but Quark’s sobbing continues.  Sisko gently turns Quark around so he can see his face, which is blotchy and tear-stained.  Quark fists his hands into Sisko’s undershirt, sobs wracking his body.

Quark stammers, but can’t quite spit out what he’s trying to say.  “That was so -- I needed-- you don’t even _like_ me -- No one would help, but -- you _did_ \-- you--”

Sisko wipes his hand off on the edge of his undershirt (ugh), then rubs Quark’s shoulder in gentle comfort.  

“Quark, what’s wrong?  I thought--”  Sisko starts, his voice strained with concern, but whir of the office door opening disrupts the moment.

Captain Picard stands in the doorway, hand still resting on the door’s control panel, frozen in place at the scene in front of him.  

The two Starfleet officers stare at each other a moment.  Picard clears his throat.  

“Commander…?”

Quark whips his head around toward the Captain, yelps, then twists around to cower behind Sisko, hunching his shoulders inward as if trying to hide himself.  

Sisko, with considerable discomfort, realizes how strange this must look -- Quark, still hiccuping sobs, half-naked with his hands bound; Sisko with his jacket off, his face flushed with blood flow that hopefully isn’t too obvious.  

“Yes, Captain.”  Sisko clears his throat.  “Is the, ah, situation with the Jrengal under control now?”

“Ah well… for the most part.  I was coming to find you and heard… distressing sounds.  I thought you might be… in trouble, alone with the Ferengi.”  Picard says, face contorted in distressed perplexion with his attempt to connect what just happened.

Sisko reaches over to pick up his jacket, still shielding Quark from view with his body, then drapes it around Quark’s shoulders and unties his hands.  

“In trouble?”  Sisko says when he’s done.  Quark clutches the jacket around himself tightly -- it’s comically large on him, reaching his knees -- and he gives Sisko a sour look, then jerks his head towards Picard, as if to say _get this guy out of here_.  “No more trouble than what you witnessed in the conference room.”

“Yes, ah well, the Enterprise hasn’t had the best experience with the Ferengi -- they’ve proven to be duplicitous and underhanded.  I think you understand why I didn’t trust him being alone with you.”

Sisko flares with tightly controlled anger.  He’s not the biggest fan of Ferengi himself, and Quark is, perhaps, an acquired taste.  However, to write off an individual (and one who has been vouched for by a Starfleet officer at that) purely as the result of unsavory elements encountered with other members of his people is hypocritical for anyone who espouses Federation values of diversity and acceptance.  It occurs to Sisko that not so long ago, he might have felt the same, but he’s not about to let Quark, still teary-eyed, be insulted in front of him.

“No, I don’t understand.  Anything good that’s come out of this meeting has been the direct result of this man, here.  It was Quark who was able to reconstruct all the intricacies of the Jrengal’s food rituals, based solely on cursory interactions with them almost a decade ago.  It was Quark who allowed them to relax enough to even _begin_ to talk to us.  The… incident that happened was unfortunate, but I’d advise you to not hold it against him; we all have our accidents, and I assure you Quark intended only the most humble respect to our guests here.  I’m proud to have him as a caterer and a business community leader on our station.”

“Yes, yes of course,” Picard says hastily.  “My apologies, I was clearly mistaken.  Since it appears you’re alright, if I might inquire the… professional nature of the situation here?”

Sisko glances at Quark, who is half hidden behind Sisko, clutching the jacket around himself and teary still.  “A medical issue.  A _confidential_ medical emergency, which according to Starfleet code, I’m not required to disclose unless it encroaches on crew security.”  

A gnawing anxiety eats at Sisko’s stomach, as he considers Quark’s emotional upset and the possibility that despite his hesitance he may have crossed some unknown line with Quark.  He says the next bit more for Quark’s sake than Picard’s.  “Quark, of course, is free to report anything he would like to about the situation to my superiors, without negative repercussions or my oversight.”

Quark jerks his head up at Sisko, brow ridge raised with a question.

“Understood,” Picard says, glancing uncomfortably between the two of them.  “The Jrengal eventually calmed down, and I think we managed to convey to them our apologies and regret for the accident.  They’re ready to return to our previous discussion, if you are available to join us.  They, ahh, don’t require additional food service this evening.”

“I’ll be along shortly,” Sisko says.  Picard nods stiffly and exits.  Sisko’s not sure if he’d ever seen someone so relieved to leave an awkward interaction.

Sisko turns towards Quark and keeps his voice gentle.  “Now, before I go, I need to know if you’re alright, and if anything happened you...didn’t like.”

“No, it was good.  I’m fine now.”  Quark waves his hand dismissively, then wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.  He allows a familiar smirk to crack his watery face, and Sisko is relieved at the sight. “You’re proud to have me as a community leader?  In that case, if I’m so important, maybe you’d approve advertising on viewscreens throughout the station--”

Sisko’s face hardens into a glare. “You should have taken care of your issue before coming on this trip or not come at all.  This may have been an accident, but it wasn’t unavoidable.”  Quark cringes, abashed, then Sisko softens and smiles at him.  “But I meant what I said to Picard -- your role in this conference was invaluable, at least at the beginning.”

“Invaluable, hmm?”  Quark’s smirk returns.  “Then I assume you wouldn’t mind me charging a 10% markup for the catering.”

“I’ll pay you at 85% of the original agreed upon price.”

“Okay… 5% markup.  Final offer.”

“You botched the sixth course, in a royally disastrous fashion at that, so 85% is more than fair.  And I’ll make sure the Jrengal have your contact information for any business opportunities.  I'll be sure to mention your success with the tulaberry wine syndication.”

“Alright, deal.”

As they shake hands, Quark's smirk widens into a leer.  "So is there anything I can do for you?  Hand job, blow job, whatever.  If we have a debt, I'd rather settle it now."

Sisko's eyes widen in alarm.  He's still somewhat aroused (nothing he can't handle on his own, later), but that Quark is so quick to expect Sisko to hold this over him as a debt if he doesn't offer reciprocation is worrisome, to say the least. "Quark, you don't owe me a damn thing, other than not to botch the next time you cater an event like this."

Quark's bottom lip quivers.  "Your loss."

He abruptly buries his face into Sisko’s torso, his arms embracing him in a tight hug.  Sisko is taken aback at first, but finds himself hugging Quark back, rubbing his shoulders.

“I thought you would have one of those hu-mon hard stomachs,” Quark’s muffled voice says.

“Abs?  Oh they’re under there somewhere.  But you can’t grow up in a restaurant without a healthy appreciation for good cooking.”

“I don’t mind.”  Quark lets out a long deep sigh and nuzzles into Sisko’s chest.  

Starfleet Academy’s instruction, and even Curzon’s particular brand of diplomacy, hadn’t prepared Sisko fully to understand such… _peculiar_ … alien people as the Ferengi, but interacting with Quark has certainly tested his boundaries of cultural relativity.  Strangely, he finds he’s okay with that, even protective of this particular Ferengi, with his obnoxious idiosyncrasies and uncomfortable vulnerability to exploitation.

Sisko hesitates, then kisses Quark’s forehead.  

He couldn’t have predicted hugging this small, strange man in any capacity back when they first met.  He also certainly doesn’t want a reoccurrence of the earlier somewhat traumatic experience, or perhaps even future non-emergency sexual contact.  (Maybe he'll even try talking Quark up to Odo sometime, remind Odo that Kira isn't currently single, and he should respect that.)  However, he has to admit that this moment, right here, is nice.  Maybe Quark was right.  He’s been lonely, and it’s been too long since he’s had the warmth of someone in his arms like this.

\----------

Later on the runabout, halfway back to the station, Quark scarfs down hasperat from the replicator.  He makes a sour face after every bite, but methodically works his way through a plate piled high with them anyway.

“I’m glad you seem to be feeling better, but I told you that replicator makes a decent shrimp scampi.  You’d probably enjoy it more than sub-par hasperat.”

“Hmmph,” Quark says, his mouth full, now on his third serving of the Bajoran wraps.

“Not that you're in my debt, but if you would be interested in doing me a favor… why don’t you come by for dinner some time?  Say, next week-- that should give enough time to gather appropriate ingredients.”  

“Yeah?  Gross hu-mon food, I expect?  Pass.”  Quark takes an over-large bite of the hasperat, his cheeks puffing out from the excess food while chews.

Sisko grimaces at his table manners.  “I guarantee you’ll love my traditional low country seafood boil… Well, not so traditional-- I think substituting Ferengi pond roaches for crawfish and tube grubs for shrimp might work just fine.”

Quark raises his browridge high in surprise, his mouth hanging open slightly with half-chewed food.  He swallows.  “You would eat insects?  Good wholesome Ferengi insects?”

Sisko shrugs, grinning.  “Sure, but _I’ll_ be cooking them, mind you.  Call it a compromise.  Bring Nog.”  Sisko winks. “I’ll make sure Jake is there, maybe we can help with a little match-making.”


End file.
